


Tide at Perigee

by symbolcrash



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-01
Updated: 2007-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symbolcrash/pseuds/symbolcrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some occurrences within nature that simply cannot be ignored. Saïx knows this. Demyx-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [happycrabmearii](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=happycrabmearii).



> If anyone in this story belonged to me, I would be filthy stinking rich. Since I'm anything but, you may rightly assume that I'm merely playing with someone else's toys - Square Enix and Disney's toys, to be exact - and that I may, someday, give them back. When I feel like it.

Under every footfall, a pathway with glimmering patterns would extend ahead of him. He tilted his head down, then up.  _There is no way,_  thought the young mage, his teeth pressing gently into his lower lip,  _that I will ever get used to this._

_Any of it._

A sudden movement to his left provoked instantaneous fear within him, and he leaped backward, stumbling against the invisible wall surrounding the edge of the polygonal trail. It was only one of Them – one of their higher-ranking Lessers – those Lessers that were held back against harming the mage granted he stay out of the way of the others. The others didn't take well, apparently, to newcomers.

The Lesser wielded a grand weapon, but it did not brandish the formidable thing at the young man (though if it had, the mage would have likely fainted dead away). Instead, it inclined its head with a vague sentient curiosity, then disappeared back into the wall with a sickening gurgle that the newcomer could only liken to the sound of someone releasing that final hold of air underwater before drowning.

He swallowed and cautiously drew a breath of air into his lungs.

“Demyx.” The voice was deep and rich, and the young mage turned about-face, standing straight as if he knew to respect the voice's owner simply by interpreting his intonations. He wasn't used to being called Demyx; it had been a full week since his arrival, and the name still sounded odd whether it was being spoken by himself or others. It wasn't as if he knew what he was called before he was called Demyx, if anything – there was a presence of memory that had formed something of a film over the gap in his mind, but it only called echoes of things to his recognition. Never a name or a face.

Demyx stirred his wrists and brought his hands behind his back. “S-sir? Yessir.”

The silver-haired man strode up to Demyx, his authority coolly projecting behind a stony gaze. “Address me as your Superior.”

Confused, Demyx parted his lips. “Superior?” He hadn't meant to say it so questioningly, but the inquisitive inflection was there in his voice nonetheless, and he could not take it back. “I – I mean, Superior.” He avoided eye contact with the one called Xemnas; the man was too cold.

With a nod, Xemnas clasped Demyx's shoulder with a thin hand and started to lead him in the opposite direction the mage had been walking in the first place. “You will train,” he said pointedly. There was no room for argument, though Demyx was burning to know what sort of training the Superior had in mind.

As if probing the other man's thoughts, Xemnas barely tilted his head as they walked to address the young Nobody. “You recall, Number Nine, when you were brought here, how your skills were measured?”

Demyx nodded slowly, a shadow of fear brimming within the hollow of his chest. He would never be able to forget. They had tested him, all of them, and by the end of their trials he had splayed himself helplessly in the corner of the room, shuddering with the last torrents of energy he possessed.

Xemnas stepped easily onto the lower platform, the bottom of his coat billowing briefly with the movement. Demyx followed with a small hop; it was a big step. “Tonight, you will meet Number Eight in the Second Chamber of Arms. He is waiting there. He will help you to improve your skills in combat.”

The mage's mouth and throat went dry. The last thing he wanted to do was fight. It seemed, however, that these – this Organization – thrived on the politics of war. They seemed to be obsessed with it. Demyx felt cold. “I – "  


“You  _will_ improve,” Xemnas interrupted him harshly. Demyx fought hard to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat, and when he did, he was still unsure how to respond to such a statement – to such a  _demand._

Xemnas lifted a hand, and an ominous swirl of evil-looking material snapped into an oblong tear in the fabric of space. Demyx frowned deeply and took a step backward, but he was pushed ahead roughly by a powerful hand.

“I – will,” he stammered at last.

 

\---

 

 

The air in the Second Chamber of Arms was charged with the anticipation of battle – or, in Demyx's case, the precursor of anxiety to imminent doom – and Xemnas didn't seem to be fazed by it. Rather, the Superior chose only to deliver the young mage to the room and leave him to his fate.

“Call it,” Xemnas said cryptically, then disappeared into his conjured ether.

Not even a second had passed after that empty warning, and Demyx was thrown aside, a sharp pain resonating from his side out to the rest of him, ending in a brutal vibration at the ends of his digits before his back slammed ungracefully into a wall. “Ow!” Demyx cried, his voice high and tremulous.

“Get up,” said the voice, a taunt gracing its tone.

Number Eight.

Demyx shot an injured glare toward the other black-coated man and resentfully pulled himself to his feet. As soon as he felt able to straighten his body, it was doubled over once more and sent sprawling to the other side of the room. The mage groaned pitifully. “Stop,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Number Eight spun his chakrams idly in his hands. They vanished, just like Xemnas' portal.

Pressing his forehead to his hands, Demyx let out a sigh of relief.

“You have to fight me,” Number Eight said brusquely, kneeling for an instant to grab the other Nobody's hand and pull him to his feet. Demyx's body buckled in protest, but Number Eight seemed to have no trouble in holding him upright for as long as he wouldn't stand on his own. It was surprising; the red-haired Nobody was at least an inch shorter than him, possibly more, and he didn't seem to be built right for the strength he exuded. Finally, Demyx relented, and leaned against the wall instead.

“I can't,” Demyx insisted, panic becoming more apparent in his voice as Number Eight drew back, summoning his weapons once more. “I can't! I mean – I mean, I don't know how!”

“That's why you're here, isn't it?” Number Eight smirked. “To learn how to fight?”

 _I don't know where to start!_ Demyx wanted to scream; instead, he choked out: “I don't want to!”

Number Eight ran a frustrated hand through his hair, then dropped his arms to his side. “Oh, you're a  _real_ piece of work, aren't you?”

Demyx tried to control his own breathing. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Number Eight said impatiently, “either fight me or let me make this quick.”

The mage didn't know how to fight these people – these non-people with their fancy weapons and attacks – but he also didn't like the implication of the second option. “Can't you at  _least_ give me a  _hint?_ ” Demyx flailed. This was unlike any “training” he'd ever gone through before. This was just torture.

Number Eight stood back, chakrams lowered, as if contemplating this idea. Then, he gave Demyx a wicked grin. “No.”

Demyx opened his mouth in protest, but whatever he was planning to say was granted no opportunity to slip past his lips because at that moment, one of Number Eight's weapons spun viciously toward him. He squeaked in response and dove aside, narrowly escaping what would have been a very painful route to unconsciousness.

“ _Why?_ ” Demyx shouted, rolling away from yet another attack. Number Eight effortlessly called back the chakram and sauntered over to where Demyx sprang upward, ready to run away from the next attempted blow.

“Be _cause,_ ” Number Eight snapped, “you have to learn for yourself. Otherwise, you'll never survive here.”

The mage swallowed thickly and bent his knees, uncertain as to when or where the red-haired Nobody would place his next attack. He wrung his hands and backed away as Number Eight advanced on him – he felt trapped; the man was stalking him like prey. The only thing Demyx felt that he was learning was the fact that he was destined to spend his non-existence on a confusing world with savages who would slaughter their weak and struggling without a second's thought.

Silence fell heavy on the Second Chamber of Arms as the two Nobodies paced in a twisted sort of dance, Number Eight grinning at Demyx as if daring him to let down his – incredibly tense – guard.

 

Demyx felt like he could cry. The other man was allowing him absolutely no escape. Not only that, but he refused to just lay one of his chakrams on Demyx and be done with it – no, he was _holding him there_ , advancing ever subtly toward the mage, pressing him closer and closer to the breaking point.

And, Demyx thought, he was probably enjoying it.

The mage's muscles were strung tightly against his bones with tendons and sinews stiff to snapping. His mind was racing; he didn't know what to do. The only way past the other man was _through_ him, which meant he would have to fight, which he was trying to avoid at all costs. He wanted Xemnas to come back and tell them they were out of time – sparing them none of his proclaimed disappointment, of course, but Demyx would rather be scolded harshly than obliterated.

As time progressed, however, that looked like one of the least likely scenarios to happen. Among those scenarios was also Number Eight's sudden and unexplained change of mind.

His own change of mind was more probable. Number Eight wouldn't expect that, either.

Demyx bit his lip fiercely in a final decision, and prayed that he would black out before he felt any real pain. Curling his arm back quickly, he lunged toward the fiery Nobody, yelling out something that he wasn't sure was a real word as his fist connected soundly with Number Eight's jaw.

Then, he winced horribly.

He was right – Number Eight did indeed look astonished at the fact that the mage had assaulted him so. The chakrams disappeared for an instant as the man rubbed his jaw with irritation. “Wrong move, Number Nine,” Number Eight growled lowly, and promptly slammed Demyx into a readily-conjured wall of flames.

There  _was_ pain. Luckily, Demyx was good at passing out.

 

\---

 

 

It had been an excruciating walk from the Second Chamber of Arms to his quarters, both the unyielding heat from his burns and the lecture from Xemnas weighing heavily on his body and mind. His forehead knocked gently against the wall as he pressed his hand to it, revealing the shimmering doorway that would lead him to temporary solace. He wanted nothing more than to rest.

Hesitantly and tenderly, Demyx slipped out of his long coat, wincing as he felt even the smallest grooves of the leather against blistered skin. The pain reminded him of something – something about a beach, and the sun, and the sun reflecting brightly against the cool, wavering ripples of the ocean –

Just as quickly as it came, the memory faded into the film that ran over his mind. Demyx sighed deeply and kneeled to the chest at the foot of his bed, opening it with a quick flick of the unsecured latch. He knew there was a Potion in there somewhere. With any luck, it would be a substantial enough dose to give him enough comfort for sleep tonight.

After rifling briefly through the stacks of paper, stones, and spare articles of clothing, Demyx procured a green bottle from the depths of the chest. He was quick to uncork it and down the whole bottle, grimacing against the bitter taste and hoping that he could swallow enough of his own saliva in rapid gulps to calm the churning in his stomach and keep it down. There was a brief spell of panic as he thought he would be unsuccessful, but after a full minute of tilting his chin upward, eyes closed, contracting the muscles of his throat just enough, he folded his arms and buried his face into the crook of his own elbow, breathing steadily as the potion worked its magic.

The mage stood, wiping his sticky lips with a bare wrist, and settled onto the firm mattress. He was feeling better. Energized, even.  _Maybe even good enough to take on Number Eight!_ He chuckled at the thought, then shook his head.

In his peripheral vision, he caught a familiar glimpse of blue.

His sitar.

It was the one thing that had made it through the transition with him – that transition between Something and Nothing that he sensed was a disturbing one but that he could not fully remember – and Demyx felt that he would not have made it through the whole week without it. Music was a saving grace; it calmed beasts, it frightened the fearless, and it drowned out the cries of worlds helpless against darkness with a soothing, hopeful melody.

Demyx smiled and held his hand out to the sitar. It vanished in a swirl of blue, then rematerialised in the mage's arms. Cautiously, he ran his fingers down the strings, closing his eyes as the chord struck something both beautiful and horrible in the emptiness of his chest. He wiped at his eyes, then started to strum a gentle tune. It was doing him more good than the potion. The melody became quicker and a little more intricate, and he felt the familiar cool mist against his face as the music awakened the ebb and tide of the water he knew was within himself. The ocean he'd remembered only minutes before slipped once more into his thoughts, and Demyx let his eyes flutter shut as a whitecap struck against his wavering knees. He tasted the salt in the air.

When he opened his eyes again, he grinned at the creation that he was  _certain_ he'd summoned before – a perfect replica of himself with head tilted, magnificently reflecting whatever dim light emitted from the walls of the room. For Demyx, there was no vanity in creating himself within water – it was no testament to his own glory or implication of the mage's worth – rather, it was a combination and manifestation of the two things he could truly understand in this world: himself, and his power. With music to join the two harmoniously, he knew he would always have a place within  _something._

His gaze wandered over the clone, and he frowned in contemplation. Then, curiously, he struck a different sort of chord on the sitar, strumming madly, and the clone turned and whipped and whirled in a disjointed and frantic manner, arms outstretched. If Demyx wasn't careful – if he didn't change the tune, it might end up destroying something fragile, and the mage certainly didn't want to incur Xemnas' wrath in a situation regarding the liability for property damages –

The music came to a halt, and the clone fell in an unidentifiable spray to the floor. Demyx's mouth opened slightly, and he  _swore_ he  _felt_ excitement tug at something in his chest. He pulled his knees up to his torso and leaned his chin upon them, his brow knit in thought. Maybe – just maybe –

With a small, self-pleased grin, Demyx rolled back, his head falling against the pillow as he clung to the sitar. Perhaps – perhaps he could survive here.

He  _could_ survive.


	2. Chapter 2

The ever-steady and soft, fluid glow of the walls roused Demyx from a surprisingly peaceful slumber; one lacking in nightmares or even the odd hopeful dream, such as the one he'd encountered on his third night. He hadn't wanted to leave the warm place – the one he couldn't remember – and he'd secretly hoped that it was this world, in all of its confusion between the corporeal and the ethereal, that had been the nightmare.

Instead, he rubbed a cool hand across his eyes, feeling remarkably well-rested. There was something important he told himself to remember for the morning that was currently dancing on the outskirts of his memory –

Ah, yes. That's right.

A smirk lifting the corner of his lips once more, Demyx dressed himself quickly and made his way to the hall where many of the Organization chose to dine. For the first time in  _days,_  he felt famished. It was interesting to Demyx how pain and other physical sensations were terribly strong, yet those sensations that had no known physical origin were only shadows of what they could have been.

Yet, they  _were_ there.

The mage made his way over to the steel table, nearly bumping into a dark-haired man as he gave more attention to his idle musings than to his sense of direction. The dark-haired man whipped around and scowled.

Demyx winced, then stepped back. “Sorry,” he said plainly, and gave the man a tentative pat on the shoulder before he realised that the best possible move he could make would be to simply walk away. He sighed. He should have scowled back.

“Hm,” said the dark-haired man, and ripped a chunk off a bread loaf in front of him.

Demyx's stomach growled fiercely, and he tried to find a place to sit that wasn't too close to the other members. He did this only out of respect for those who had the capability to rip his head off with their minds – Demyx was, by nature, a very extroverted creature – and though he longed to converse at lengths with these strangers, he assumed by their lack of enthusiasm for his presence that they would not enjoy it.

A plate, whereupon lay a warm loaf of bread and a square of chocolate, materialised at his place, coupled with a small clank of silver against china as a bowl filled with soup settled into existence – or, Demyx wondered,  _non-_ existence? - right beside it. Hungrily, he picked up the bowl, completely disregarding the spoon inside it, and drank down the broth in enormous gulps. A pang of regret followed that action, when he realised he could have dipped the bread into the broth, but that didn't matter. He would make a sandwich, and all would be right with the world.

Just as he was beginning to bask in the beauty of his own chewing, he felt a hard  _thump_ against the broadest part of his back. Demyx coughed violently before he was able to swallow, and he whipped around, prepared to mimic the dark-haired man and give the culprit a very irritated glance, when his glare melted into a timid frown. Number Eight brushed behind him, that self-assured grin permanently plastered on his face. The mage's expression swerved more toward horror when the red-haired Nobody casually pulled out the chair beside his and plopped down into it.

So, being tough was going to take a little more work than Demyx expected.

“Geez,  _what?”_  Number Eight said, squinting at the newcomer's look of pure terror. “You think I look bad in the morning, you should see Saïx –“

A blue-haired man – presumably the one called Saïx – lifted his gaze from his own meal and regarded Number Eight with a cold, unwavering stare. Demyx cringed away from it.

Number Eight appeared to be mostly unmoved by the non-verbal assault, though his eyes flickered briefly to the ceiling. Then he grinned, crammed a piece of bread into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully.

At the opposite end of the pseudo-emotional spectrum, Demyx was regarding his plate with the utmost interest. He hoped Saïx and Number Eight would keep focusing on each other so he could finish his meal in a relatively safe state of mind. Unfortunately, Number Eight turned his gaze toward the young mage as soon as the thought crossed his mind.

“So,” Number Eight said, his tone purely conversational. “What'd they end up calling you?”

Demyx hadn't been prepared for anything but taunts and cruelty to pour from the lips of the fiery Nobody; therefore, when Number Eight's amicable mannerisms proved dominant, the blond was stuck to respond. “Um,” said he, in a dizzying display of eloquence. “D-Demyx.” He hadn't meant to stutter, and cursed inwardly when he realised he had. In his mind, he was ruining every opportunity he had to make himself appear stronger to the others.

“Cool,” Number Eight replied, not addressing the slip in diction at all. Demyx was thoroughly confused. Was this the same man that had appeared to take pleasure in making him suffer the night before? “I'm Axel. Got it memorised?”

Arching an eyebrow at Axel's tilted grin, Demyx nodded and chewed the last of his bread slowly. He wondered if the man was insane. In a place like this, he wouldn't be surprised. “Yeah,” Demyx said at last.

Axel leaned back further in his chair, his arms behind his head in a semi-relaxed state. “So, the Superior wants me to take you to the First Chamber for some practise.” His eyes remained riveted on the mage, as if testing him.

It was something Demyx expected. “Um, I'm gonna be busy today,” he replied, hoping his features were relaxed enough to appear nonchalant.

Snorting, Axel shook his head. “You'd better thank the stars that the Superior didn't hear that. Oh, and be glad I'm compassionate. Generous, if you'd like to go that far. If there's one thing that doesn't go down in this place, it's disobedience.” Axel leaned in, causing Demyx to instinctively scoot back in his seat. “We call it subordination. Ever hear of that?”

Demyx nodded jerkily.

“Yeah. It doesn't yield the most pleasant of returns.” With that, Demyx thought he saw the fire-worker's gaze shift toward Saïx – though it could have been a trick of his own mind. He slumped down.

“I'm sorry,” Demyx said honestly. “I just – don't know why I'm here. I don't  _want_ to fight.”

Axel broke off a piece of chocolate and dunked it into the dregs of his soup, letting it melt a little between his fingers. Demyx wrinkled his nose. “I kinda got that from last night. Man, you were a _mess._ I guess the Superior has something in mind for you, else you wouldn't be here. But yeah, wow, I can't say I was impressed.”

“You nearly killed me!” Demyx shouted, realising only moments too late that a sudden outburst might provoke a negative response.

Only Saïx moved to acknowledge him, and though the man's face betrayed no hint of irritation, it could be extrapolated from his carefully enunciated words. “Silence yourself, Number Nine.”

Demyx's eyes went wide for a moment, and then he looked down at his plate. He chewed a piece of chocolate in the newly-settled quiet. Saïx regarded him briefly, then returned to his own meal.

Axel's plate disappeared once it was empty. Demyx assumed that the same would happen with his, though he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to finish it after all. His stomach had certainly shrank during his fast. “You have a  _lot_ to learn,” Axel said simply, then got up from the table and stretched. “See you in the Chamber.” He clicked his tongue and winked at Demyx – the mage wasn't sure whether to interpret that as a friendly gesture or a taunt.

 _See you,_ Demyx wanted to say, his throat ready to tense around those formidable words. However, he would find that his voice had seized; he could only move his lips around a dry whisper. Did Axel really scare him that much? He didn't feel overly frightened – at least not to the point of speechlessness. Dejected, Demyx sank even further into his seat. Maybe there were things here that his body recognised, but that his mind did not. He was still so new to this, like an adolescent. Perhaps he would grow into these shadows of emotions like a teenager grows into his own.

Demyx stood, leaving the last fragment of chocolate on his plate. It was making him sick; it wasn't enjoyable. He liked chocolate, but currently he felt like it would be wasted on him.  _I hope the First Chamber is right next to the Second,_ Demyx thought ruefully, not quite up to exploring the entirety of the place just to get to the room where he would be undoubtedly pounded into the ground.

The red-haired Nobody was a mystery to the Nocturne – one that he wasn't quite sure he wanted to solve. Usually, war begot war. War rarely begot camaraderie, yet Axel didn't seem to regard Demyx as an enemy outside of the Chamber; rather, he treated Demyx like an ordinary acquaintance. It was the most disjointed “friendship” he'd ever encountered.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his long coat and steadily made his way out into the corridor, the bridge of shimmering polygons glowing again under each step. They were almost hypnotising. However, they were not suited for stealth, as Demyx would have remained unaware of the presence behind him were it not for the off-rhythmed glow that bounced from the walls a few paces away.

Demyx turned around, and instantly, he felt cold. Saïx stood there, fixing the mage with a level gaze. Demyx met it uncertainly. “Can I help you, Saïx?” His tone was in no way confrontational; the last thing he wanted was to fight against  _this_  man.

“I want to watch you practise,” Saïx responded calmly, folding his arms in complete silence, the leather of his coat too supple and worn to crinkle and squeak like Demyx's.

Lowering his gaze, Demyx gave Saïx a small smile. “It'll be quick and funny; I don't know who wouldn't want to watch.”

Saïx merely lifted his chin in response. “If you refer to your own skills, might I inquire as to why you find them so deplorable?”

A strangled sigh issued from the throat of the Nocturne, and he placed a tired hand to his forehead. “Because they  _are_ ,” Demyx insisted. Why wouldn't anyone listen to him? “I've  _never_ fought well. Not here. I have no idea if I fought well when I had a heart, but considering the fact that my skills are 'deplorable' now, I'm going to guess that back then, I still sucked.” His face was contorted in an expression of perfect disappointment and anguish. Saïx's did not change.

“I think, Number Nine, that you have simply not been trying hard enough,” Saïx replied impassively, approaching Demyx and placing a hand on his shoulder. Not surprisingly, the action was hardly comforting to Demyx, but because the blue-haired Nobody seemed to be exhibiting some effort at acquainting himself with the mage, he gave him a tentative smile in return. Then, he resumed his study of the floor patterns. “Perhaps, if you have some  _positive_ encouragement,” Saïx went on, “you will find that fighting Number Eight is not as difficult as you may have envisioned.”

Demyx didn't know how to respond to that theory outside of a vague nod. Truthfully, he doubted everything Saïx told him regarding his strength in battle. He wasn't going to admit that aloud, however – out of fear. “I have to – to be there,” Demyx said awkwardly, pointing in the general direction of where he expected the Chamber to lie. “If you want to come and watch me die, I guess no one can really stop you.”

Saïx quirked the slightest of smiles; it was obviously forced, but Demyx said nothing more. The two walked together – Demyx in a hushed sort of hurry, Saïx taking his time – until they finally reached the shimmering doorway that lead to the First Chamber of Arms.

Axel was already there, executing a few lone yet impressive moves with those flaming, spinning,  _devilish_  chakrams. Demyx grimaced, a ghost of the pain returning in his side with a fleeting memory of the night before. “Here,” he said unenthusiastically, stepping inside the square.

Interestingly enough, the fire-wielder didn't acknowledge Demyx at first; instead, he stared straight over the mage's shoulder, where Saïx stood in wait. After a moment of studying the occasion, he spoke. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“I am here to observe the newcomer,” Saïx replied, a subtle sneer gracing his features. “It will not be an  _inconvenience_ to you?”

Demyx watched them interact, and the palpable tension made him incredibly uneasy. In that time, he wondered if the two of them would fight instead. It would definitely save him the trouble.

Axel stared at Saïx, a mixture of dislike and something else – fear? - pooling behind his eyes. “No,” he said finally, his answer curt. “Not at all. Have a seat. We'll put on a great show, won't we, Demyx?” He flashed that confident grin again, and there was a hint of animalism within it that made the mage squirm.

Demyx could feel that tightening sensation in his chest again, and it made speaking very difficult. It was all a game to them; a deadly game, wherein he was the pawn. “Mnf,” he muttered, and took his stance. He recalled the idea he'd had the other night, when he watched himself spin in a fluid frenzy across the room to that haunting, harsh, and peculiar melody.

Holding out his arms, he focused on the sitar that sat in the corner of his quarters. It materialised gracefully in his hands, and he tested out the chords.

A heavy silence settled over the room. Then, Axel started to laugh so hard that his cries of mirth were indistinguishable from sobs. “Oh, man! You gonna sing me to sleep, Number Nine?” Axel jeered.

The Nocturne ignored him, dragging his fingers languidly across the strings. The melody picked up; it was harsh and dangerous, and Demyx glanced up at Axel from beneath his brow, through wisps of blond hair. He felt the mist, and unleashed it.

Axel stared as the clone advanced on him. “The  _fuck?_ ” He promptly destroyed it with a single hit from one of his chakrams. “You don't start fighting for real, I'll just knock you flat.”

Saïx kept his gaze riveted on the young mage and his sitar.

It happened all at once. Demyx felt a strange tension build from the small of his back, snaking up his spine and agitating his nerves. A stinging heat flushed his face with red, and he jumped back, throwing out his hand to release a heavy and pressured geyser directly at Axel, flinging him bodily against the wall.

Axel fell to the ground, momentarily stunned, then turned a wicked eye toward the water-wielder. “That's more  _like_ it.” He spun toward Demyx without any further hesitation and struck out at him with the chakram. It grazed the musician's shoulder, and Axel chuckled when the mage let out a cry of pain. That is, until he was struck repeatedly with the Nobody's sitar.

Demyx shook his head and drew back, his mouth dropping open. Why had he done that? He'd knocked it out of tune!  _I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you,_ he thought, stroking the neck of the sitar, a horrified look twisting across his face.  _I'm –_

His thought process ended there, when Axel slammed one of his chakrams into the back of Demyx's head.


	3. Chapter 3

_Laying low in the brambles, Demyx twisted his hand around a vine. The thorns were thick and sharp, but they only grazed the hard, learned flesh on his palm; they did not puncture it. Two girls – they looked like women now, thought Demyx, though he wasn't sure why the thought crossed his mind; nor was he sure why it caused his chest to ache – built their castles on the pliable sand, their hands discoloured and dry from the work._

_He whistled, high and shrill, then made himself perfectly still._

_The women looked up in unison, an expression of confusion comically marring their subtle beauty. One of them, emboldened by the silence, stood from her masterpiece and placed her hands low on her own hips. “I know it's you!” She pouted._

_Caught in his game, Demyx still did not relent. He brought his hand to his lips and whispered something into the fine mist gathered in his palm. He blew it toward the woman who was standing, and he waited._

_The spray drifted lazily onward, aided by the cool pre-summer breeze. It clouded about her ears and tangled in her messy blonde locks, the whisper kissing her from behind: “Over here.”_

_She spun around viciously, looking very annoyed when she found no source for the whisper from whence she thought it had come. “I'm telling Mother,” she said resolutely._

_“Oh, stop,” the other girl chimed in. She was younger; her eyes were slightly larger, but she shared many of the older girl's features. “You get so upset. He isn't doing anything wrong.”_

_“He's annoying me,” said the first, a scowl draping across her bright green eyes._

_The younger one laughed. “You're just bitter because you can't find him on the first try anymore.”_

_That remark earned a spectacular curse from the eldest's lips, and Demyx arched his eyebrows in astonishment. He knew_ he  _hadn't taught her those words. Using her outburst as an excuse to finally reveal his presence, Demyx stepped out of the brambles, brushing the dirt and splinters from his trousers and tarlatan shirt. “Kebby, you've gotten too bold,” he told the elder girl, then let his lips briefly touch her cheek. “I'll help you build your castle anyway.” He then sank down into the cool sand, digging his fingers around her structure._

_“I don't need your help,” Kebby snapped, but she didn't protest when Demyx started to etch tiny arabesques into the gate he was constructing for her._

_The younger one looked up at Demyx pleadingly, and he inched over to her castle. It was a tad lumpier than her sister's, but still, it was a work of art. “Whatcha need, Nimie?” His tone was playful and bright._

_Nimie pushed a few wayward strands of sun-bleached hair behind her ears. “I can't make the tower stay up.”_

_Demyx studied the dilapidated columns for a moment before taking a handful of sand and forming it into a stumpy cylinder at the side of the structure. “The sand is too wet,” he deduced, using his fingers to draw a little of the water out of the grains, flinging it to the side. “It's gotta be sort of crumbly, but not so dry as to flake. Like this.” He held up the sample for her to examine, and she nodded understandingly. “Did you want me to make it for you?” He asked, hoping she would say 'yes.'_

_“No, it's okay,” Nimie said, smiling. A little part of Demyx sank, like the tower on the girl's castle. “Thanks for showing me, though.”_

_He turned back toward Kebby, and gave out a small yelp of surprise when he noticed that in that short period of time, her castle had grown to twice its size, with intricate balconies and turrets springing to life along the edges. “I guess you really don't need my help,” he murmured weakly, watching as she placed a leaf at the top of a tower. A flag._

_“Nope,” Kebby replied proudly. The irritation had left her voice. “I could live in this castle, couldn't you?”_

_Demyx tilted his head. There was something about the structure; he felt he knew its corridors intimately, and for a moment could not help but to close his eyes and envision himself surrounded by those grainy walls, ever-tinged with the scent of beach, salty from the water and seaweed, sweet from the flowers that grew around the rocks of surrounding tide pools. He wiped his eyes and nose._

_“What's up with you?” The young architect asked, betraying a hint of awkwardness in her features._

_Using a stick to carve a few more details into the gates – he imagined them as wrought-iron, dark and looming, despite the whiteness of the sand – Demyx smiled tentatively. “The ocean's going to wash it away when high tide comes, you know.” He thought of all the work Kebby went through, working her hands to sculpt those perfect angles, to carve the beautiful flying buttresses._

_Kebby folded her arms. “So what?” Demyx tilted his head at her nonchalance. “I'll build another one next time, and I'll make it stronger.”_

_“Sand washes away no matter what,” he reminded her teasingly._

_“I'll build it out of rocks from the pool.”_

_“Then it isn't a sand castle anymore,” Demyx responded, clicking his tongue. “You might as well melt the sand and make it glass, for all the good it'll do you, but it still won't be a sand castle. Why don't you just build it higher on the beach, away from where the tide reaches its peak?”_

_“Real castles don't just pick up their walls and move when they're attacked,” Kebby said plainly, wiping her hands on her dress. “They have a foundation. You just have to make them stronger.”_

_Demyx leaned back on his hands, his elbows straightened behind him. “It's not a real castle, Kebby. It's -”_

_The mage was cut off mid-sentence by a searing pain that shot from his chest and into the back of his skull, crackling angrily, inflaming every inch of his skin as the nerves sizzled. “Oh -”_

_They were calling his name, but he couldn't hear them. He couldn't understand them – there was concern, but he felt it was misplaced; he would be fine soon. The pain shot to the front of his head as if something were skewering him through grey matter and bone. It was making him sick. “Kebby! Nimie!”_

_Their voices faded into the crashing waves – the sand castles! - and thin spirals of darkness wrapped seductive tendrils around his mind, caressing it, enticing the pain until it became unbearable. He opened his mouth to let out a choked cry, but the darkness had sealed his throat._

_“Silence yourself, Number Nine,” Saïx said calmly._

_He shook his head painfully as the tides consumed him._

 

\---

 

“This guy just can't take it, can he?” Axel's voice crept in from behind the sharp ache. Demyx groaned.

Another voice formed from the cloud in his mind, dark and low. Xemnas. “He will improve.” Footsteps faded into a crisp silence, but the echoes of the battle still remained. Demyx could still feel the vibrations.

“Yes, Superior.”

Demyx opened his eyes, hissing in shock when the brightly-lit Chamber took advantage of his current weaknesses and bombarded his pupils with photons. The Superior was no longer there - _probably left out of embarrassment -_  but Axel remained, twirling one of his chakrams with a dexterous wrist. “I – I'm sorry,” he whimpered, pushing himself up from the floor, trying not to moan as another wave of pain washed over his skull, bringing with it those horrible pinpricks up his spine. “I didn't -”

“Well, you did for a little while.” Chuckling lowly, Axel leaned idly against the wall, examining the soot beneath his fingernails. “Nice move. Wasn't expecting it from you; I shouldn't have let my guard down.”

After that confession, the mage turned his head slightly to regard Axel with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. “I wasn't expecting it, either,” he said numbly. “Where's Saïx?”

“And  _wow,_ that guitar thing hits  _hard,_ ” Axel mused, ignoring Demyx's question entirely. _“_ Shocked the fuck out of me when you used it in the first place -”

“Sitar,” Demyx sighed. “It's a sitar. Where's -”

“Right, yeah,” said Axel dismissively, waving a hand in front of the Nocturne's face. “Anyway, nice round. Short, but sweet.” He smirked, patting Demyx somewhat roughly on the back. It sent a new bolt of pain into the mage's head, and he winced. Axel laughed, pushing off from the wall. He conjured an opening in the middle of the room. “Oh, you might want to get a Potion or something for that wicked head-wound,” he chirruped, then disappeared into the swirling blackness.

Demyx frowned deeply, squinting as the portal spiralled and snapped closed after its creator. He wanted to say so many bad, bad things to him; he was too tired to linger on the thought, however, and pulled himself to a standing position with no minimal effort. Traces of the – dream? Was it a dream? - still persisted at the edge of his memory, but any move to recall the scenes resulted in more pain. He would try to remember later. That is, if he remembered to remember.

Gathering the part of his coat that had slipped from his shoulder in the fight, Demyx pulled it close to his neck and re-zipped himself. The zipper was too slick – it didn't catch the teeth together quite right – so he just held it together at his throat and told himself he'd fix it later. Such as his luck would go.

The corridors were empty and hollow as Demyx slumped through them. His plan had been a spectacular failure – not only did his clone  _not_ protect him, but he'd lost grip on himself and now he couldn't remember what had provoked him to beat the fiery Nobody over the head with his sitar.

A brief, amused smile fluttered to his lips as he realised he was more worried about the well-being of his instrument than that of his superior. The amusement fluttered down to something that was a dull echo of annoyance as his smile twitched into a firm-lipped glare. What did he expect? One of them soothed him, the other delighted in beating him to a pulp. It wasn't difficult to determine which outranked the other.

“Hey.”

Demyx gasped, flinging himself against a wall, arms splayed. The fight had left him more than a little twitchy. “Wh - who's th -”

The pony-tailed head came down first from the ceiling; the body followed suit. It was still as it descended into his line of sight, then sloped backward into a lazy recline. “Hey, kid. Number Nine. Demyx, right?” The man let his feet fall lightly on the floor, tapping gently against the hardness that was there but wasn't.

Gaping, Demyx pointed up. “You were -”

“On the ceiling. Yeah, I know. You'd think after bein' here a few days, you'd start to get used to shit like that.”

Demyx stared at the man, politely avoiding his eye-patch with his gaze. He did have a point. Axel threw fire, people tore holes in the fabric of the universe, and he himself could use his learned power on a more heightened level. “Yeah,” he swallowed. “Guess you're right.”

The other Nobody grinned. “Anyway, name's Xigbar.” He put an arm around the blond's shoulders in a display of sudden camaraderie, and Demyx was taken aback. He wasn't sure whether to accept it or run away out of the fear of it being a trap. “You'll find that I'm usually right. Usually.”

“What's this about?” Demyx asked, honestly not sure why Xigbar was paying him any mind. Everyone else seemed to ignore him – why the sudden change in disposition?

Xigbar shrugged. “Heard you were having trouble with Number Eight. Thought I might be able to give you a few hints.”

Again, Demyx was confused. “ _Why?_ ” He asked. After all he'd seen, he couldn't fathom a valid reason for the other man to offer assistance. Unless -

“I don't have any munny,” Demyx confessed. His head was still throbbing, and he wanted to curl up somewhere quiet.

A laugh, somewhat hoarse, tumbled from the other Nobody's throat. Demyx flinched at the sound. “No munny. Just want to see that cocky little shit get his own. He's been insufferable since you got here, now that he's not the lowest on the totem pole anymore.”

“Great,” the mage replied dully.

Xigbar shook his head. “No sweat. Now listen here.” He dropped his voice to a low whisper and pulled Demyx closer, as if he were about to reveal some deeply intimate secret. “This is what you do. If you're going melee, you gotta aim low, then high. Then mix it up. Number Eight's got this addiction to flashy finishes, see, and he holds his arms out -” Xigbar held his arms up to demonstrate - “like this. Looks like a fuckin' chimp sometimes, but what're you gonna do, right? Be random with it. Have some fun.”

Demyx suddenly realised how tired he was, even on top of the pain. “Fun, yeah. I'll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” said the higher-ranking Nobody, and patted him firmly on the shoulder. Demyx wished they would stop hitting him – regardless of the blow's power, it was enough to send unwanted vibrations into the back of his head, where Axel's wound still remained fresh. “Can't wait to see it.” Without another word, Xigbar disappeared, dissolving into a slightly-warped alteration in space.

The mage's shoulders slumped, and he brought a hand to his aching forehead. “ _Now_ what am I supposed to do?” There were so many things he needed to think about, and so many others for which he needed to prepare. If there was even so much as a scrap of truth in what the gravity-defying Nobody had revealed to him, then he would need to practise. It wasn't something he anticipated with any sort of eagerness, but Number Eight, in all his jeering, had been right about one thing: He needed to learn how to survive.

His resolve set firmly in place, he started away from the Chamber, toward the shimmering horizon that lay beyond the door at the end of the corridor.

“Number Nine.” The voice was placid and familiar, and Demyx froze in his steps. He turned to face the one who addressed him.

“Saïx?” Demyx knew it was him, but the question begging to slip past his level facade buried itself beneath the man's name.  _What now?_ The man was cold, like Xemnas, and looking into his eyes reminded him of the tumultuous waves -

-  _higher on the beach, away from where the tide reaches its peak -_

The Nobody shifted his hair from his shoulder and held out his hand, beckoning Demyx forward. “Come,” he stated simply.

Demyx wordlessly complied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief thank you for the wonderful comments I've been receiving thus far. Demyx is incredibly fun to write, and the feedback is a definite plus. 
> 
> I thought I was going to have this chapter up last night, but it turns out I was distracted by someone who wanted me to draw a picture of Legolas with breasts. Alas. But enjoy! There's more to come!


	4. Chapter 4

The room was gray; small pockets of swirling dark matter protruding from all six walls. Demyx paid them no mind, his arms slack at his side, stepping against the waves of emitted energy to approach Saïx. His vision was blurred. A consistent pressure dug into his parietal bones. But there was no pain.

There was no pain.

Saïx turned his gaze from the side to look at Demyx. Suddenly compelled, the mage dropped to his knees, his eyes searching the floor like those of a guilty child.

“Number Nine.”

Demyx lifted his chin slowly, false languor melting the creases and muscular contractions in his face until no expression remained, save for an illusion created by shadows weighing heavily on his eyes. Their rims were taut and reddened. “Yes,” Demyx responded in kind. His voice rested in a lower register; his lips barely parted to form the few words he was intended to speak.

“Your weakness is a beautiful thing,” Saïx stated fluidly. He reached down – never out of his own range – to place a mocking hand on the Nocturne's cheek. Demyx did not flinch then, nor did he react when Saïx pulled his hand back to touch his own chin in contemplation. The mage simply watched, his emotionless gaze transfixed by the Diviner's movements. “Do you hear me, Number Nine?”

Demyx nodded. The movement was almost imperceptible.

“Do you understand me?”

Another nod, barely there.

Saïx leaned down, bowing at the waist and bending his knee until he was face-to-face with Demyx, staring deeply into his darkened eyes. “Will you obey me.” It was not a question – and even if it were, there would only be one answer.

“Yes.” The affirmation, clear and crisp, tumbled from Demyx's lips.

Saïx straightened, bringing the mage to his feet as he did so. “Good.” His long, thin fingers laced behind his back and rested at the dip in the small of it, remaining still against inertia when he paced by the mage. Demyx followed him with his eyes. “I know how you long for acceptance,” Saïx murmured. “I know the nature of your type; you drift, you move, and yet you strive for completion – to be a part of something unfathomably larger than yourself. Am I correct in making this assumption, Number Nine?”

There was no response. Demyx let his gaze fall to the floor.

“Answer me, water-wielder,” the other said, turning to face him fully. “It is the duty of the ocean to submit to the moon, even as it waxes and wanes. Now, Demyx: am I  _correct?_ ”

“Yes,” Demyx replied.

“Get up,” Saïx ordered, and Demyx straightened – his body stiffened as he stretched upward – to meet the demand. “You carry out your duties well,” the blue-haired Nobody observed. “One day, you will be complete.”

“Thank you.”

“Others,” Saïx continued, unmoved by the mage's reflexive gratitude, “do not deserve it. They do not carry out their duties as well, nor do they respond to those who have authority to move them. They flicker mindlessly from their goal, extracting rather than interpolating contributions, illuminating their own selfish interests to the ultimate enfeeblement of others' efforts. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Saïx set his lips in a firm line. “These sorts do not belong here. They present a risk, one that must be extinguished early to prevent mishaps in the future. I am the only one who sees this – _liability._ ” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Number Eight does not wish for us to be complete; he is simply along for the ride.”

Demyx's countenance hardened, and he snapped his gaze, momentous and turbulent, to his superior.

“Demyx,” Saïx said coolly. “Put out the fire.”

 

 

 

Demyx held his head down, his neck sloping gracefully from his shoulders. The echoes from his footsteps were thunderous in the silence, and with each jagged reverberation came a clenching of fists; something stormed and crash beneath the surface of his skin, searching for an outlet, and it begged to be allayed. The mage gritted his teeth, but pressed on, allowing the darkness to pool about his ankles and the wisps – which he typically found to be more than disconcerting – to lightly kiss his knees, and waist, and chest, until he found himself perfectly consumed by that which he once feared. His eyes narrowed before they were touched by the strands. “Axel.”

The name found acoustic reverberation in darkness, abetted by Demyx's enforced resolve. It carried into the destination, and Number Eight had enough time to stand quickly from where he had been seated and face the nothingness that had addressed him before the curls of bruised blackness materialised and infringed upon his personal space.

“Demyx?” Axel asked in disbelief, advancing on the mage as the blond called his sitar, illuminated and strong, to his hands. “What the fuck are you -”

His words were cut short when a strong wall of water burst up from the floor, catching the Flurry in its spray and battering him against the ceiling. “Like it?” Demyx said tauntingly, pulling the violent fountain away as easily as he'd summoned it.

Axel fell in a crumpled heap to the unforgiving soundness of the floor, coughing to expel the liquid from his lungs. “Not very bright, are you?” He seethed, leaping up into stance. “ _Never_ attack someone on their own turf!” He summoned his chakrams in a fantastic display, burning and spinning to life in his hands. “You'll – _always – lose!”_

Malignant flames engulfed every inch of the walls, and Axel drew some of them together and shot them in a sudden burst toward Demyx.

Demyx crossed his arms in front of his face, a jetty spouting through a newly-formed fissure in Axel's floor. It absorbed the brunt of the attack, and gave the mage enough time to reel back with his sitar and slam it into the other Nobody's face. Axel was flung backward. He disappeared into the wall.

“Come on!” Demyx growled.

Axel showed himself moments later, sliding in on a stream of fire, which he promptly urged to rise into a pillar – right below Demyx. Demyx flailed in mid-air, a shriek forced from his throat. Something snapped in his mind, his consciousness pushing through the gelatinous stronghold, and it took him less than a second to analyse the situation and come to the conclusion that somehow – despite the fact that he couldn't remember when he'd made it back to his room – he'd managed to sleepwalk himself into some deep trouble.

“Axel, wait!” Demyx cried, pushing a wall of water forward to shield himself from Number Eight's inevitable attack. The chakram crashed through it, and while the flames that danced on its rims were extinguished, the weapon itself careened into Demyx's arm and flung him to the side. “No!”

The red-haired Nobody scowled, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Coward!” Axel roared. “You  _started it_ ; you will  _finish this fight!”_

Demyx's jaw went slack. He'd  _started_ it? Even if he  _had_ been sleepwalking, that concept didn't sound likely. He would have figured his subconscious mind to be more likely to run away than his conscious one. He shook his head, glaring at the Nobody he presumed to be responsible for attacking him, bringing him here, burning him. “You're  _lying!”_ He shouted accusingly, backing away from the fire.

“Ha!” Axel spat, grinning dangerously. “Rich. You're  _real_ rich. Such  _conviction_ when you twist the truth! Such  _eagerness_ to pass the blame!” He held his chakrams high, the resulting sparks and whirlwind blaze creating a bizarrely hypnotising, yet formidable, light. “The Organization is  _perfect_ for you!” His grin quickly changed to a snarl, and he hurled those chakrams at the water-wielder with amazing strength.

“No, no!” His mind racing, Demyx came up with the only escape route he imagined would actually rescue himself from this situation. The darkness curled around him, pulling him into the abyss, just as the chakrams clashed and exploded against the wall.

 

 

 

Almost as soon as they had gripped him, the loose tresses of that dark, semi-ethereal mist spilled off of Demyx's curled form, dissolving into the cool pavement upon which he lay. “Unh,” Demyx groaned, pushing himself up from the rough ground, trying to orient his mind and body with his new surroundings. He spat onto a rock, his mouth filled with dust.

Tall, empty buildings loomed over him, their teetering balconies and precipices converging at a single point somewhere in the sky. The street lamps cast a cold, ghostly glow on the rain-spattered asphalt, accenting the reflections of the neon lights that flickered and buzzed; street signs creaked and rattled in the light wind. Demyx brought himself up with the aid of a fountain's edge, his sore muscles protesting with every constriction they were forced to endure.

The fountain was empty and mostly dry, but a few dregs of rainwater had pooled in the uneven bottom. He scooped some up and held his trembling hand to his lips, sucking in just enough cool water to swish around in his mouth and spit back into the fountain. Deep, shaky breaths moved in and out of the mage's lungs. Then, he pounded the side of his fist into the flat concrete of the fountain's ridge, a familiar tightness gripping the base of his spine, slithering up to his neck. “ _No!_ ” Demyx yelled. The fountain sprang to life, torrents of his element rushing out of the fountain statue's dark and twisted mouth, shattering a nearby window. Now that window matched the others.

He rubbed his hand with a sigh, cradling it at the waist of his coat as he stood. He recognised this place; it was the city just outside the castle. The city that enveloped one within its regret and yearning for the picturesque utopia it could have been. It could have been, but never was.

Something deep within him stirred, and he frowned. A solitary Dusk swayed before him, boneless limbs quivering as it wavered in silence. Demyx took a step toward it, uncertain, trying to gauge the creature's reactions before making any sudden moves.

It tilted its head.

Demyx stepped back, the dull ache – or an ache caused by the absence of an ache, he couldn't be certain – returning in full force. The way it moved was awkward and strange, but there were quirks – a tilt of the head, a flick of the elbow – that made them seem  _human._ They were Lesser, yes; however, they – like him – had once been whole. They had once been  _alive._

Stepping forward once more, Demyx inclined his head, mirroring the small, human-like actions of the other Nobody. “Who  _were_ you?” He whispered.

At his words, the Dusk lurched forward and clung to his shoulders, its flexible body contorting and wrapping around Demyx's body in a tight coil. Demyx cried out in surprise, then stumbled backward, flinging out his arms just in time to catch the edge of the fountain as he fell. The corner caught the middle of his back, and he winced. “Let go of me,” he said falteringly, the chill of that rubbery flesh sending shivers throughout him. It reminded him of hopelessness, of falling, of some moment in his past where he'd been forced to abandon himself, and along with that, everything – every _one_  – he had ever loved.

_– you just have to make them stronger –_

“Get  _off!_ ” Demyx said, his voice sharp and low. In an instant, the limbs recoiled, wobbling back to their original form, and the Dusk disappeared in a puff of black.

Adrenaline tingled at his nerve endings, causing the hair on his skin to rise with the bumps along the surface of his own warm, very human skin.  _Why did I come here?_ He wondered. Then, his memory clicked, an image of Axel sliding over his mind. His shoulders slumped.  _Talk about starting off on the wrong foot._

Rain collided with his jacket as it started to fall harder, dripping from his face and hair before smacking against the not-yet-broken-in leather. He flung a little bit of water away from his face.

-  _the sand is too wet –_

Demyx looked up, each peak of the castle seizing its own flash of lightning. His arm started to rise out of that newly-acquired habit, but he stopped himself. He didn't like it when the darkness was so close, so  _intimate._ Nothingness was bad enough.

He would walk.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning allied itself with the harsh echoes and hoarse mumbles of midday. Demyx fought to keep his eyes closed for a few more minutes, and the logic in that was simple: If he were not awake, he wouldn't have to get up. Council be damned – what would they do if he didn't show? Kill him? He might as well be dead. Make him fade back into the nothingness from which he was born? Number Eight would surely take care of that in time – while Demyx was sleeping, evidently, if not during his waking hours.

He rolled over onto his back from his side, and while his quarters had no windows, a restless energy was bubbling at his core. Unconsciousness had been his bedfellow for too long, and he felt the sinews in his hips and calves tighten with a pesky desire to move about.

Finally, Demyx flung the blanket from his agitated form, sitting up so quickly that a spell of vertigo overcame him, and he was forced to hold his head in his hands to keep from falling back to the stiff mattress. “Nh,” he muttered, shaking away a lingering dizziness. It seemed as if every time he gave himself to a deep, completely unhindered slumber, the mage would wake up feeling – or _sensing,_ rather – the slow accumulation of reality at a vertex just beyond his reach. It was mildly unpleasant; in a world where nothing was ever truly real, and the only reality was nothing, to lose grip on it would be to be defeated.

There was a reason why Demyx was not a Dusk. He was too strong to allow that to happen. Especially not first thing in the morning.

Pulling his coat lazily over his shoulders, Demyx made a move to zip it – until he remembered that a few of the teeth had broken in one of his first spars with Number Eight. He brought his palm to the center of his forehead, then glanced around feverishly to find something to hold it together. The bravado of his earlier thoughts regarding the scheduled council dissipated into a thin wreath of panic around his throat – perhaps he'd save crossing Xemnas for another time, when his will to exist was not so strong.

He found a few long pins embedded in his sheets – presumably to keep them secured to the mattress – and pushed them through the leather, their tiny heads creating small craters on the calloused surface of his thumb.  _There,_ he smirked, satisfied with the way it fit. As a last, reassuring measure, the mage conjured a wall of still water to rest against the mildly reflective swirl of the wall. It was slightly distorted, but it would do. Deft hands worked the leather back into its previously flat state – it had bunched with the pins – and then moved up to comb through his hair, delicately ensuring that it was presentable. Just because he'd wrestled with a Dusk the previous night didn't mean he needed to walk around  _looking_ like it.

Demyx tugged a little on the wrists of his gloves, ensuring they were secured snugly to his lithe hands as he stepped out into the hallway. All around him, faint wisps of darkness were curling into the air, their non-molecules separating until they could no longer be seen. Demyx took a breath. They had all gone before him.

If he were to catch up, he would either have to vanish into the darkness himself or run like hell.  _Well,_ he reasoned,  _if a guy has to make an entrance._ He let the black wisps engulf his body very quickly – perhaps too quickly, as he felt his face tingle and prickle against the inconsistent waves of heat and chilled air.

“Number Nine, you're late.” Demyx stepped away from the relenting strands as they fell to liquid against the floor, brushing a strand of dark blond hair out of his face as he narrowly avoided a head-on collision with the man with the eyepatch.

“Sorry,” Demyx coughed. “I was – I got caught up, my coat was -”

“Save it, kid, we haven't started yet,” Xigbar replied gruffly. In that brief exchange, Demyx was able to form a vague suspicion that the guy wasn't a morning person.

Demyx offered him a grin. “Right! I'll go sit down.” He didn't know why he felt the need to state the painfully obvious – what was he going to do, stand throughout the whole council? - but if Xigbar had any qualms about the declaration, they would have to wait. Demyx had vanished in another swirl of black, rematerialising on the surface of his hard and ridiculously enormous chair. He tried to hide the shudder.

 

Within ten seconds of his appearance there, Demyx found himself shifting uncomfortably. He leaned back.  _No._ Scooted to the side, his arms resting on the brace.  _Nope._ Why did they have to be so solid? Demyx gave up, slumping forward, his head cradled by leather-clad hands.

“Hangover, Number Nine?” A falsely-sweetened voice tore into range above the murmurs of the others, and the moment Demyx heard it, he wanted to go straight back to bed. “Decided to drown your sorrows and poor sportsmanship, did you?”

The mage tilted his head up just enough to peer at Axel over the tips of his fingers. “We don't feel sorrow,” Demyx retorted, echoing the words given to him by the Superior. “So, I guess not.”

“Oh, good one,” Axel said, the saccharine decaying from his words. “Sarcasm. Bitterness. I like it. Please, do go on.”

Demyx moved his hand briskly to the bridge of his nose, his index finger and thumb quick to pinch the flesh, bone, and cartilage together in a painful red lump. “Leave me alone, Axel. It's bad enough you'll fight me in my -”

“Number Eight, and Number Nine,” interjected Saïx coolly, his yellow eyes levelling down at the two. “The Superior has arrived; you will give him due respect.”

Axel wasted no time in diverting his attention from Demyx, placing his hands behind his back and tilting his head downward in a small bow. Demyx's eyes widened briefly, and he mimicked the motion before glancing briefly to Saïx, who nodded. The water-wielder felt odd, wondering why he chose to look to Number Seven for approval.  _Why was he looking at me in the first place?_ He felt his physical heart kick up a bit in rhythm.  _Was he making sure I didn't mess up?_ He'd seen the motion of submission done, it  _wasn't that difficult –_

“My Organization,” Xemnas addressed them, and eight pairs of eyes snapped up from their reverence, watching the Superior with anticipation. Demyx leaned his chin on his knuckles. “Many times have I lamented our predicament, despite our progress. There are many worlds that war with the Heartless, and few hearts have been released from prisons encased within the darkness to join the others in their Kingdom. Several of you have fought well upon these worlds, and for that, I dispense to you my gratitude.” Some of the members nodded knowingly. “It is still not enough. These armies of Heartless would grant us nothing but inconvenience were there no one to slay them. And rarely in these worlds will you find someone willing to perform that very task.”

“Forgive my intrusion,” a very well-built Nobody interrupted, “ but I have defeated countless Heartless – more than instructed, in fact -”

“Lexaeus,” Xemnas said. “I have already told you of my gratitude. That does not change our situation.”

“The Dusks,” spoke up another. He looked to be as young – if not younger – than Demyx himself. “They have killed battalions of Heartless at our command.”

“Of that I am aware,” Xemnas replied smoothly. “However, were their efforts enough, even combined with yours, we would not be holding this council. Given that, if there are no further interruptions, I will continue to speak on the subject at hand.”

Nothing but silence dared to seep in and obstruct further oration. Demyx averted his gaze when his leather squeaked loudly under his weight as he shifted positions.

“Very well. I shall be brief, as every second that feigns existence in this place must be utilised toward the achievement of this goal. The pathways of darkness have once again opened anew, their flowering worlds just beneath their reach. The Heartless have found them already, and they clamour for what we must release.” He turned his gaze to rest on the blue-haired one. “Saïx.”

The man disappeared from his seat, rising in cover with darkness next to their leader. “Yes, my Superior.”

“You have instructions for the others. Deliver them quickly, then report to me. Vexen!”

A Nobody stood – one that had been silent for the limited duration of the council – and joined Saïx beside the Superior. He gave a quiet yet respectful nod. Xemnas leaned toward the younger to murmur some sort of order, which Vexen appeared to regard with great importance as he summoned the darkness to move him elsewhere hardly a second after receiving it.

Demyx leaned back, trying to place the facts together in his mind like an awkward jigsaw puzzle. He knew of the Kingdom, he knew of the Heartless – they made him extremely uncomfortable – the “pathways of darkness” were words he never remembered hearing before, though. He eyed Saïx cautiously, watching the Nobody deliver small folded notes to each of the remaining members. _Maybe my note will explain it,_ he thought, eagerly taking it from Saïx and unfolding it to read the instructions there.

_Remain at the Castle for guard duty._

The mage blinked, then shook his head. He looked up curiously at Saïx, who he was disturbed to find already studying  _him_ with remarkable intensity. “Um,” Demyx said, hesitating to recover. “What are the 'pathways to darkness'?”

Saïx's gaze softened, and he approached the ninth member without any apparent reservation. “Your instructions should not have anything pertaining to -”

“I know, they don't.” Demyx refolded his note and placed it in inside his coat. “I'm curious. I mean, I – I want to know what I'm doing if I'm going to do what I'm going to be doing.” A sheepish expression crossed his face. “You know?”

“The pathways  _of_ darkness, Number Nine, are roads typically hidden, sealed off by the light of each world.” Demyx leaned in, his eyes trained downward toward the Diviner, quite enchanted with the description. “The Heartless extinguish these lights, and in doing so, the darkness flourishes, no longer hiding the pathways between them.”

Demyx was jerked out of his sudden stupor by a sharp clap against his shoulder. “What -”

“Hey, I've got a great idea.”

_Axel._

Saïx regarded the Flurry with nothing more than mild disdain, and then returned his attention to Demyx. “Heartless, Nobody, and human alike are granted access to these pathways if they have the power or equipment to recognise this access -”

“I think he gets it,” Axel said, sitting up straight, his legs swinging over the edge of his seat as they were promptly consumed by darkness. They were regurgitated by it moments later in a standing position, and an arm jutted down in front of Demyx's face directly thereafter. “But if I'm not mistaken, I believe Number Nine has assumed my previous station  _here_. Am I right?” He leaned in to look at the Nocturne expectantly.

Demyx opened his mouth twice before words managed to breakthrough the stronghold of confusion in his mind. He didn't know why he was suddenly so boggled. “Yeah, but -”

“That means you have to know the  _route._ Look at you; you barely know how to tie your boots in the morning -”

“They don't tie,” Demyx interjected, shadows of irritation tickling the back of his throat. “And I -”

“Irrelevant. If anyone's going to guard this castle, they'd better know what the hell they're doing. Otherwise, it wouldn't make sense to -”

“Axel.” Saïx looked up at the both of them, but his eyes followed the one he'd called. “Do you not have responsibilities of your own?”

Axel halted all indications that he had been speaking to Demyx to focus on his superior. “I'll get to them,” he replied simply, then grinned. “Besides. Have I  _ever_ let the Organization down?”

Demyx lowered his gaze from the both of them.

_Such conviction when you twist the truth! Such eagerness to pass the blame! The Organization is perfect for you!_

“Besides,” Axel went on, “didn't the Superior say he wanted to speak with you? I wouldn't want us to infringe. Go on, let your inferior handle the busywork.”

Saïx paused, looking as if he were debating between two possibilities: thanking the Flurry, or – interestingly enough – ripping him apart where he stood. “Very well,” he replied tersely, turning his back on the two physically stationed above him. “I do not expect this will delay you from completing your  _assigned_ mission in a timely fashion. The original deadline stands.” With that, he vanished in a swarm of dark matter.

The Nocturne tilted his chin up to look at Axel, an unreadable expression settling upon his features. “Why'd you do that?” Demyx asked, his voice low.

“What does it matter?” Axel said, and quickly enveloped both of them in a black whirlwind.

 

 

 

“Ungh!” Demyx muttered, his feet colliding with the ground in a shock wave that sent a violent reverb all the way up to his hips. “Don't be so rough!”

Axel paused in his own smooth entrance to regard Demyx with a vaguely amused expression, pulling the other's arm behind him as he walked away from the silky exit from the void. “Well, maybe if you listen to me, I won't have to be.” He smirked. “That said, where should we start? We could start from the front and work our way back, or we can start at the back and work our way to the front – oh, geez, there's up and down to consider, too – this might take a while.”

“I want to know what I did that made you hate me so much.”

“Tsk,” said Axel, wagging his finger in the younger Nobody's face. “Can't hate. No hearts. Remember?”

Demyx furrowed his brow. “Fine. I still want to know what – what the problem is. What  _your_ problem is. With me. Because last night? I woke up in -”

_Silence yourself, Number Nine._

“You what? So, you can't handle losing. Neither can ninety-nine point nine percent of the Organization. Guess what? It  _happens._ Sparring ends when someone  _loses._ It's a pretty simple concept.” Axel turned back toward the corridor, dragging Demyx behind him as he headed for the hexagonal pathways.

With a grunt, Demyx pulled his arm back, regaining the power to walk on his own. He knew he had something else to say on the matter, but he couldn't remember it. No matter how hard he tried, the words failed to come. Only when he'd dismissed the subject could he speak.  _Great. Now I'm confusing_ myself  _to speechlessness._

“Where are we going?” the mage asked, his hands going limp at his side.

Axel quirked an eyebrow. “You'll find out.”

His hands balling into fists, Demyx quickened his pace to catch up with the other Nobody. “No. No more 'you'll find out.' No more. Tell me where we're going, or I'll - ”

_Put out the fire._

“You'll  _what?_ ” Axel coaxed, not bothering to hide his smirk.

Demyx shook his head. “Forget it. It's not important.”

“Right.” Axel glanced skyward, heaving a very tried sigh. “Ahem. Way over there is Twilight's View. Right now, we're on Naught's Skyway.”

 _Cheerful,_ Demyx mused.

“To your left, notice the lesser Nobodies? They like this room. Damned if I know why. Anyway. Moving on.” Number Eight pointed to a room half-heartedly. “This is a hallway. Probably the only room in the castle that doesn't have a name. It's not important.”

Allowing himself a single inward sigh, Demyx followed his lacklustre tour guide, taking mental notes of his surroundings, and tried to prepare himself for one hell of a long night.


	6. Chapter 6

The Dusks swayed in provocative rhythms with Demyx's footfalls, regarding him with blank, eyeless features as he passed by them for the twentieth time.  _I can't believe this,_ the Nocturne frowned, keeping a watchful eye on the lesser Nobodies in case a repeat of the previous evening's incident occurred.  _Bored. No one but the Dusks._

A slight crumple and squeak of fabric issued beneath him as he slid down a column to a sitting position, his inside wrist pressed almost comically against his cheek. Desperately, he searched the room for things he hadn't seen before.

 _Panels. Dusks. Strange walls._ Nothing. A Dusk moved out of his line of sight, but that was all.

Demyx cracked a small smile. He was almost anxious to see one of Saïx's Nobodies wandering back into the hall; they still made him uneasy, but at the very least, it would be a change of scene.

He tilted his head, pivoting his chin on the back of his hand, and stared ahead. Theories about where the others went blinked in and out of his mind like the neon shots within the city's main street. Here, then gone, then an alternate current hits and the colour shifts. Always dull. Never complete.

The fantasies he created were always torpid and unremarkable. In Demyx's mind, Xigbar went to another world for the sole purpose of shooting Heartless. In another brief image, he saw that bitter-looking Nobody with dark hair in the middle of a nondescript arena, flinging his lances about like a child losing at pick-up sticks. The last scenario was consistently amusing as it morphed into something completely different with each second that passed. Then, he shook it from his head. He couldn't accurately picture the dark-haired one playing pick-up sticks at all, let alone losing at it, so he left it at that – lest he fail at restraining his laughter the next time he caught a glimpse of the Nobody in one of the Chambers of Arms.

 _Losing._ Demyx sighed, the word causing the last of his already-faint and unrealistic glee to recoil as it edged into its own pathway of meditation.  _So, you can't handle losing,_ Axel had said. _Drowned your sorrows and poor sportsmanship,_ he'd taunted. The mage felt a strange sort of tension in his lower back, which released its hold almost as quickly as it had come. He folded his arms over his knees. That wasn't true. He thought himself to be terribly sporting about everything, all things considered. If the mage were the type to wield his grudges with his weapon, rather than consider the consequences for others involved, Demyx  _knew_ that Axel would be toast.

Unhappy, embarrassed,  _soggy_  toast.

 

 

 

_“Come on! Come and get me!” The girl shouted, her hand thrust toward the clouds, clutching a piece of paper in her tight fist. “What are you, scared?”_

_A fading chuckle rippled through the small crowd he couldn't see._

_Demyx paused in his chase – he knew there had been a chase, because he was panting, his hands resting against his knees – to consider the ground on which he stood, and to analyse the distance between himself and the girl. She was young. So was he._

_None of that mattered. He needed that piece of paper, and that was all he knew. That was enough._

_“I'm not scared,” Demyx shouted, inching forward carefully. Apparently, his foil was like a small animal, insomuch as she darted away when faced with quick movements. “I just don't think you should take things that don't belong to you, and you should be sorry that you took it and give it_ back _!” A step forward. “_ Especially _when it's mine!”_

_“Oooh,” taunted the gathering._

_The girl stuck her tongue out, unfolding the paper to read its contents. “Dear Isbe.”_

_“She's gonna read it!” Someone whispered excitedly._

_“Don't!” Demyx shouted, the wave of panic rushing over him so strongly that he almost lost his footing. “It-it isn't_ yours _!”_

_“I miss you, and I want you to come over as soon as you can when you get back, because -”_

_Demyx, taking full advantage of the time the girl spent with her eyes riveted to his scrawly penmanship, advanced on her with a purposeful glare. The moment she glanced up from the note, Demyx leapt at her, pinning her to the ground when they fell upon it. Someone gasped. It might have been him._

_She looked up at Demyx with wide, frightened eyes. “I didn't mean to call you scared! I'm sorry!”_

_His eyes narrowing and his expression hard, Demyx reached down and pried the note from her bony fingers. “Do you have a diary?” He demanded._

_The girl squirmed beneath him, looking as if she would tear up right there. “Yes!”_

_“How would you feel if I read_ that _to everyone? Huh? I bet loads of people would laugh at you. I bet you'd_ cry. _”_

_“Geroff 'er!” someone shrieked, and Demyx was quick to comply, shoving the note back in his pocket safely. The girl stood up and brushed herself off, her lip trembling._

_Demyx frowned and swallowed, taking a step back. “I'm sorry if I hurt you. Just – just don't do that again, okay?”_

_Taking a deep breath, the girl strode over to Demyx and reeled back, slapping him smartly across the face. “Weird-o,” she muttered, and left him there alone._

_The gathering dispersed, and Demyx rubbed his cheek._

 

 

 

It still stung, even after rubbing it for several seconds. Then, the sharp, jarring discomfort came again, pinpricks following in suit. Demyx clapped his hand again to the pain, opening his eyes. “Wh-what?”

“I'm not gonna ask why you were dreaming in Duskland, Number Nine,” Xigbar said sharply, drawing back his hand, “but weren't you supposed to go out and actually do something? Like, I don't know, your  _mission?_ ”

Demyx stood up quickly to face his superior, and he tried to avoid flinching when one of the pins slipped loose from his coat and poked him in the chest. “I'm – my mission was here.”

Xigbar snorted. “Wise ass. You've got a lot of nerve. Seriously. Are you back or not? 'Cause, most of us are. 'Cept for Xaldin. Last I heard, he's catching hell in – well, in hell. The Underworld.”

“I don't know what you're talking about!” Demyx admitted, his voice a little higher than he'd intended.

Leaning in to peer at the water-wielder, as if to determine his honesty, Xigbar scratched the back of his head and squinted at him with his good eye. “What'd the Superior want you to do  _here?_ Boot shining? Laundry?”

Demyx reached into his coat and procured the note, unfolding it with his thumb as he handed it over. “Guard duty.”

The Freeshooter frowned, ridges forming in his forehead as Demyx's clarification seemed to steep him even further in confusion. “Guard duty?” He echoed in disbelief. “We don't  _have_ guard duty.”

“But Saïx said -”

“We've  _never_  had guard duty.”

“But  _Axel_ said -”

Taking Demyx's nonplussed expression to indicate that he should elaborate further on the subject, Xigbar did not fail to follow through. “The Castle does it for us. Between that, our Lessers, and the other random Nobodies you see traipsing about the castle, this place is pretty damn secure.” He smirked. “I think you've been had, kid.”

Demyx smiled only because there was nothing in the room that he could destroy without repercussions. “I see,” he said.

Xigbar slapped Demyx on the shoulder a couple of times in an emasculate display of attempted comfort, then chuckled. “Tough luck. Guess something convinced the Superior that you weren't ready for field work, huh? Wouldn't want you to fade into darkness on your first day, right? Didn't think so.”

“Why not just tell me that outright?” Demyx asked.

For once, Xigbar looked to be at a loss. “Dunno. Maybe they think you're sensitive or something and don't want to put you out.” He let out a little “hm” of laughter at his own joke. A Nobody. Sensitive.

Right.

“Trust me, you'll be jaded in no time, just like the rest of us.” A smirk twitched at the corner of Number Two's lips. “If the impatience doesn't get to you, the other members will.”

“They tricked me,” Demyx said, dumbstruck.

Xigbar shrugged. “So – deal with it? I'm not your counsellor; you've got a brain. For crying out loud. I've got some places to be.” He snapped his fingers at a couple of Dusks, who materialised by his side. “Don't kill yourself over it.”

Demyx bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.  _Axel, that lying bastard._ “Right,” he mumbled, tongue barely able to flatten between his clenched jaw to form the word.

With a jerky wave, Xigbar and the Dusks disappeared into the darkness. Demyx steeled himself and left his post.  _The post that never was_ , Demyx thought, the convenient irony striking a humourless chord within him.  _How fitting._

There was little debate within his mind as to how he should – and would – put an end to the nonsense that surrounded him on a day-by-day basis. Axel had returned. The Freeshooter had said so. If Number Eight wanted it this way, he would get it this way. If the only way to gain recognition in this cult of periodically-obsessed lunatics was to become one, thrusting out at the neck and tearing at meat to store with the veins within his reluctant yet ready jowls, then so be it.  _So be it._ He removed the slipped pin from the slight bunch of leather at his throat and jammed it through again, tucking it under several layers so it wouldn't budge.

“Number Nine, you look so determined,” Saïx observed dispassionately, forming in front of the Nocturne out of the black wisps that had appeared while he was looking down, fidgeting with his pins. This only briefly set Demyx off-course – there was no reason for insubordination, after all – and he gave himself the mental clearance required to stop and respectfully entertain his superior's presence. “Where are you going?”

Demyx adjusted his posture. “Practise.”

“I hope you aren't referring to that instrument of yours -”

“I'm not.” Demyx shook his head. He wanted to leave; he wanted to do this  _now_  to get it  _over with_ before he  _changed his mind –_

Saïx arched his eyebrows subtly. “You're sparring, then. Do you have an opponent?”

Demyx faltered, then brought his gaze up to meet Saïx's. “I have one in mind.”

The blue-haired Nobody did something odd, then, and gave Demyx a dry, illusive smile. “I'm curious. Tell me, who is it?”

“Number Eight,” Demyx replied, not a second's hesitation between utterances. His eyes widened, his intentions stripped and exposed raw to the air, having gone down without a struggle.

_Those aren't my words._

“Ohh -”

“ _Put out the fire.”_

_The mage slipped under the water, his mouth moving in rapid, unique contortions, forming words that might or might not have existed, in a place where nothing except icy water and a terrible pull prevailed. The chill of it stung him; he felt his skin and muscles seize as the gurgles and fizzles of air pockets forced their way to the surface, abandoning him to the depths. “Saïx!” he yelled, fighting against the current that brought him down, down -_

_He smelled sulphur and rotting, and the undertow no longer weighted him. A hydrothermal vent blossomed to his side, surrounded by rust and heat, melting the skin to his bones; there were sirens at his side, running their hands through his hair, singing shrill and encouraging refrains, but he wanted them all to drown._

_Above him, he saw the moon._

_“Saïx! No!”_

“Demyx.” Saïx tilted the other's chin up to look at him directly, just in time to see the tide within him succumb to the perigee; it was beautiful and submissive, immense and deadly, humming with the one sensation embraced by all.

Instinct.

“This is your chance,” Saïx coerced him, his hand poised with his palm facing outward, acknowledging the spiralling tear and connection to the darkness he had just summoned before returning his full attention to Demyx, who stared blankly ahead. “Do not leave until he falls. Do not relent until he is released back to his nothingness!” He gripped Demyx's forearm firmly, his fingers tightening, using the friction of Demyx's coat to his advantage – there was such vehemence in his grasp, though his features only loaned inconsistency to his demeanour. They were so still, so cold.

Demyx nodded once, a fine mist of perspiration forming at his brow.  _It is the duty of the ocean to submit to the moon, even as it waxes and wanes -_

“Leave,” Saïx instructed.

The Nocturne did as he was told.

 

 

 

A faint, sour melody hung in the air, both as subdued and persistent as a repeating chorus, adhering stubbornly to the subconscious after it's been played. Axel scowled and whipped around, watching the darkness with sheer menace as it curled furiously beside his bed.

“Liar.” The word was bit back at first, escalating as a frantic and cuspidate sforzando cut through the single syllable and Demyx stepped out of the tear.

Axel approached Demyx with little reservation. “Oh yeah?” They faced each other for moments, glazed eyes against vivid ones, until the Flurry finally spoke again, his voice no louder than a malignant murmur. “Get  _used_ to it.”


	7. Chapter 7

Each gaze locked upon the other, cold and heated, merciless and unrestrained, as filled with the passion of war as their hollowed souls would allow. It was difficult to determine who made the first move, but they soon found themselves trapped in a tempest of arms, water and fire colliding mid-air and leaving behind nothing but a boiling, cataclysmic cloud of vapour as the walls burned white-hot from within.

The Nobodies refused to stop for a moment to engage in even the most vicious of taunts, which was a common practise during a typical spar. Instead, they kept their jaws tightly clenched, molars grinding into molars as each sustained blows neither imagined the other capable of delivering.

Demyx tucked his sitar briefly under his arm as he charged Axel from behind, riding a small but powerful wave which abruptly flung the fire-wielder against the building inferno. Axel let out a yell, then rushed the Nocturne without hesitation when he found his way back to his feet.

His attack was blocked. Effortlessly.

Axel grunted, flinging his chakrams out again to slash whatever part of Demyx it came into contact with first, but they met instead with something hard – something not-flesh – something that clanged and thumped against the metal, parrying it. Axel whipped around. “What - ?!”

The question – and Axel himself – was answered with a strained cry, as Demyx reeled back and delivered several brutal attacks with the instrument. He aimed high, and just as Axel careened back in a moment's preparation for the next attack, the Nocturne administered a powerful blow to his legs, bringing him to his knees.

“Heh.” Axel wiped his mouth, content with the brief pause in combat as the vocalisation seemed to briefly stun his opponent – why, he didn't know, but he wasn't about to question the respite. “You've improved, Number Nine.”

Demyx didn't answer. He stood back, flames licking at the lowest hem of his coat, observing Axel with an indifference that seemed genuine and forced at the same time.

He shouldn't have stopped.

In the time it took Demyx to blink at the back draft that followed the explosion that unfolded before him, Demyx found himself pinned to the wall, his throat nestled uncomfortably between two chakram spikes. “Nnh,” he gasped, flinging his arm behind him as he struggled to breathe. He tried to push away from the wall with his legs, but they were forced back by one of Axel's. “Nn -”

“I don't want to hear it,” Axel rasped, his own breathing slowly returning to a steadier rhythm after his sudden exertion. He kicked Demyx back to the wall once more as the younger Nobody attempted to escape the hold. “Oh,  _stop._ See, this is what's wrong with our generation. You think you can barge into someone's room, engage them in a  _highly_ destructive battle, and then just get away unscathed if you lose.” He scratched the back of his neck, a nostalgic smile-turned-smirk creeping onto his lips. Then, he leaned in. “It's too bad, really. You've got a lot of potential. I'd kinda feel bad for mangling you and leaving you in the Proof of Existence for Xemnas to put back together.” He chuckled dryly. “You know. If we could feel, and all that.”

Demyx's lips trembled, giving in to the miniature spasms as they became lightly tinted with blue. Only small amounts of air could make their way past the exterior blockade Axel had enforced upon his trachea.

Slowly, gently, the Nocturne lifted one hand from the wall, placing it unsteadily upon Axel's chest. Axel watched him sceptically. “I -” he whispered, his eyes turning to plead in that instant – but as his fingertips brushed the edge of Axel's collar, everything about him changed. The weakness in his movements was gone. Axel had dropped his guard.

The chakram was torn from the wall, pieces of stone and glass littering the ground beneath them as Demyx disappeared into a roiling void. Before the Flurry could shift his brow to wrinkle in a furious glare, he was pressed roughly into the searing enclosure, the back of his head connecting painfully with stone as cool, firm lips pressed against his. Demyx's eyes stayed open. An uncharacteristic cruelty danced within them.

Axel's eyes flickered wide open. He held his chakram to the side at arm's length, trying to breach the fluid pressure that held it down. He tightened and relaxed his fist, presumably attempting to grasp at the tendrils of darkness – something, anything to pull him out – but it was to no avail. Demyx's mouth twisted harshly, bruising the padded flesh beneath his, flattening it against Number Eight's teeth as he forced the red-head's lips apart.

_Feel this._

Axel sputtered and writhed beneath the mage, clear liquid spilling from the corners of his mouth, trickling down his chin in rivulets. Clasping a cold hand to the back of Axel's neck, Demyx made perfectly sure that the Nobody stayed in one spot, even as Number Eight coughed mouthfuls of water back onto his own tongue and pushed intensely against his shoulders. He wouldn't take it; he simply wouldn't  _breathe_  – Demyx, clinging to a purely manufactured train of thought, was  _certain_  Axel needed to breathe; it would all be over soon –

The struggle stopped. Axel went limp in Demyx's arms, his fingers relinquishing their knotted grip on his coat, his upper lip catching on Demyx's lower as he slid downward.

Demyx smiled; the gesture was lugubrious and taunting at the same time. “You know,” Demyx said acerbically, still speaking against the unmoving lips of the other, “I thought you'd put up more of a fight. I'm inferior to you. Guess you're not so great, after all.” He gave a small “hn,” sending a puff of warm breath over Axel's mouth. “The moon regrets his absence, though. He would have enjoyed watching you fade.”

_He's not fading. He's – not – fading – he's – not – fading – he's –_

In a flash of Tuscan-red vibrancy, Number Eight jerked upward and his neck thrust forward, pressing his mouth against Number Nine's with as much force as the latter had inflicted upon him, wasting no time in delivering his conversion. Demyx stumbled back, his tongue, lips, and throat searing with pain as he felt the water return to him in a different state; it was moist and acrid,cauterising the tissue on the inside of his mouth, forced ever-deeper into his body by a caustic wind of unbelievable strength.

Number Nine gave one last, valiant shove against Axel's chest, pushing away only to crumple to the floor, gasping for cool, healing air.

Axel wiped his mouth. “Yeah. See, maybe you never read a lot of books when you were a Somebody, but if you're going to play the villain -” his chakrams spun once more into his grasp - “you gotta learn to avoid the speech at the end. Or at least keep it short and sweet.” He nudged the choking Demyx with his boot. “For one, it's terribly cliché. For two, if you keep talking, you give the protagonist – me – time to recover. Which usually means that the antagonist – you – ends up dying  _instead._ ” He clicked his tongue with mock-pity.

“Axel -” Demyx rasped. Again, he had no idea how he'd arrived in this predicament. His not-life was beginning to follow a rather annoying pattern.

_Do not leave until he falls. Do not relent until he is released back to his nothingness!_

“Axel, wait!”

Axel chuckled. “Short and sweet, Number Nine.” He reeled back with a chakram.

Demyx panicked, his empty hands clutching for his sitar.  _Am I too weak?_ He bit his lip and looked up, his eyes pleading. There was only half a chance that he could reveal the information in the first place, and only half of that chance remained that Axel would believe him. “It was Saïx!” His hand flew to his lips, rejoicing in their usefulness. “It was Saïx; it was Saïx!” He said it again and again, as if his chances of surviving were magnified with each utterance.

His eyebrows marginally raised, Axel let the chakram hit the chest instead, destroying it completely. A pause followed the explosion. “I  _knew_ it,” seethed Axel.

Dragging himself to a half-sitting position, away from the flames that lapped at the nearest wall, Demyx looked at Axel incredulously. “You knew?” He shielded his eyes from the heat and light. “I didn't even know until to -” He paused, a horrified expression dawning upon his face. “If you knew, why were you about to kill meanyway?” Shifting positions, he made it so he could scramble away at the earliest possible convenience.

Axel shrugged. “Can't take any chances. Have to say, though – that was pretty creative of Saïx. I'd expect something like that from Zexion, but I have to admit, using you was damn clever.” His laugh came easily, as if he hadn't nearly drowned.

“Clever?” Demyx snapped. “Creative?”

“Everyone here has different ways of entertaining themselves when they're on standby, waiting for new assignments.” He offered Demyx a hand up, which the mage reluctantly took. “Most of us use the time to make ourselves better in combat – Xaldin and Xigbar, mostly. Lexaeus tends to keep to himself. Vexen doesn't believe in standby; he nearly lives in his lab. Zexion – who knows what he does. Saïx, though -” Axel crossed his arms, his smirk wry and humourless. “Saïx has this weird notion in his head that I'm trying to challenge him, steal his rank or something, and all because I shot down one of his proposals to the Superior.” He snorted. “Right. So, he entertains himself by trying to kill me semi-regularly.” He chortled, then sat on the bed, lazily smothering an ember that was eating through the top-sheet. “Typically, I steer clear of him, because I'm usually not in the mood to have my ass handed to me by a berserker who's had a bad day. Sometimes, though, he seeks me out. By that point, there's not much I can do besides play along.”

Demyx nodded, his jaw slightly slack. He couldn't believe how flippant Axel was to the concept of dying at someone else's hands. Especially when he'd come so  _close_. “You're both mad,” Demyx murmured.

“Comes with the territory,” Axel replied pragmatically. “So, on another note, how're you feeling? Still batshit insane? I have to know, so I can be prepared to destroy you if Saïx tries something else.”

Swallowing, Demyx tilted his chin almost invisibly.  _Destroy me?_ “I don't know,” he said truthfully, giving Axel a tentative and sheepish smile.  _I'm friendly!_ He thought, sweetening his expression. _You don't want to destroy_ me.

Axel sighed. “Man. Can you do  _anything_ by yourself?”

Demyx blinked, dropping the facade; he wasn't sure what Number Eight meant by that. He didn't think he had to do anything at all. In his mind, he'd done  _quite_ enough.

The fire-wielder pushed off from the bed, his hand resting delicately against his forehead. For once, he looked tired. “Don't wig out, okay?”

“What -”

Before Demyx had a chance to continue his inquiries, Axel pressed his lips against the Nocturne's; they were closed, dry, and purposeful.

Demyx jerked his head back. “The hell?”

Axel cast his gaze briefly to the ceiling,  _“why-do-I-put-up-with-this”_ clearly written across his face. “I'm doing you a favour. I'm -” He stopped. Exhaled. “You know what? Just shut up. You'll find out when you're older.”

Their lips met again, emotionless and lacking, and they fell to the sheets.

 

 

 

 

_The surf crashed in brilliant sprays of white, seeping and bubbling into the loose, rippled sand. Demyx stood in its wake, occasional waves and constant ripples swirling about the hem of his coat as he waited._

_Beside him, an array of sand castles stood in majestic splendour, Kebby's towering high above the rest. It had an ethereal quality, gleaming whiter than the rest, intricate patterns decorating the floor of every balcony – a brittle imitation of stained glass. Demyx wanted to praise her for her efforts and achievement; it withstood the brunt of the tide. It was an imperial accomplishment. He didn't know how she did it._

_“Demyx.” The mage jumped back, startled by that familiar and foreboding voice._

_Demyx lifted his chin. “Saïx!” He glared at the other Nobody, petulance lining every furrow in his brow. “You were controlling me!”_

_“Very keen of you, Number Nine.” Saïx moved away from the water, pacing methodically toward the sand castles. “If only it would have worked. It's something to consider for the next time, at any rate.”_

_Hesitating in his movements, Demyx's eyes grew large. “Next time? What – what next time? What do you mean 'next time?'”_

_Saïx brushed some excess sand off a turret and inclined his head. “Number Eight still persists, correct? Then, we must simply make you stronger and more fit for the task.”_

_“He isn't challenging you!” Demyx shouted, the waves echoing his distress as they slammed repeatedly against the width of his shoulders. “He never wanted to challenge you! You're wasting your time!”_

_The Berserker's eyes narrowed sharply, and he held his hand out in front of him. A claymore materialised there, opening swiftly with a brutal, metallic scrape. “Mind your own fights, Number Nine.”_

_Demyx stared at the claymore, then shifted his gaze to Saïx, who looked ready to spring. His jaw set, the water-wielder straightened, his hand lifting to the sky, summoning his sitar in a furious rod of light. It spun over his shoulder and landed easily in his arms. “Fine. Have it your way.”_

_It began in a blinding flash of blue, as the mockery of fluorescent light fell repeatedly against the reflective sand, concentric rings shooting over the surface of land and water, knocking the latter back in a violent spray. Demyx started back, unused to seeing the calm demeanour of the seventh member break with such fierceness, and the shock had overcome him so that he only barely had enough time to bring a guarding wall of water up in front of him to shield himself from Saïx's attack._

_Saïx growled adamantly, swinging the claymore repeatedly against the guard until the tension broke, causing it to splash anticlimactically to the sand. Demyx shrieked and rolled out of the way, springing up from the yielding terrain to hold his sitar above his head as the claymore came down against it, the after-shock sending a shudder through the Nocturne's body. He escaped the position on a wave, then set to work at the strings, plucking as many of those shrill and chaotic chords as he could, rocking back against the atonality. “Dance water, dance!” He cried, not even acknowledging his army as they rose from the surf, their fluid limbs clambering for something to destroy. “Water!”_

_Stuck between two persistent geysers, Saïx gave a savage yell and lunged forward to strike out at a cluster of clones, dashing them to a million droplets._

_They re-materialised. They advanced. Forty of them to Saïx's one, grasping at clothing and skin, wrenching the claymore from his grasp and ignoring it as it fell to the sand, scattering the soft sediment on impact._

_Demyx tore his focus from his playing and regarded the Berserker with a wary eye, confirming his opponent's temporary infirmity. With a cry, he swung back with his sitar and thrust it forward, dealing Saïx a powerful blow to the back of the head._

_Saïx fell to his knees. The flashes of false light had ceased, and what remained were the steady washes of the receding tide against the yielding beach. Demyx approached him cautiously._

_“Hm.” Saïx glanced up at him, tossing his hair indifferently over his shoulder with one hand while the other found support, splayed on the sand. “I suppose the Superior was correct.”_

_“What do you mean?” Demyx urged, going to him. He extended a hand with some hesitance._

_Ignoring the offer, Saïx turned away. “You have potential. Nothing more.”_

_Demyx let his hand fall to his side. His expression was colourless and numb. “I beat you.”_

_A mirthless chuckle – one that could have been easily mistaken for a cough – tumbled from the Berserker's throat. “In your dreams, Number Nine.”_

 

 

 

Demyx peeled the duvet away from his body, which was warm and soaked with sweat. He didn't remember his bed being  _this_ firm –  _oh,_ he realised,  _I'm on the floor._ It was further jarring when he noticed that it wasn't  _his floor._

When he leapt up, he immediately regretted it. His entire body was sore. It was mostly his head, but the rest of him protested to any motion regardless. His muscles were rigid.

Axel was perched on the edge of the bed, chakrams at the ready. “Do I kill you or not, Number Nine?” he asked lowly.

Gulping back the bit of saliva that still remained in his mouth – he was  _parched –_  Demyx held out his hands. “No. No-no, no, that's – I mean, you don't need to – I'm fine.” He shook his head. “What did you do?”

“The darkness is a strange thing,” Axel replied, leaning back against his pillow. “It can be used in different ways. Some are deeper than others, so the attack's gotta be close-range.”

“Attack?” Demyx scratched his head. “What kind of attack?”  _If I recall, that was the exact_ opposite  _of any attack I've seen here._

Axel buried his head in his hands. “I don't know what we're going to do with you.” He held out his arm, the darkness spiralling out in an opening before him. “Get out of my quarters,” he sighed, his head lowered.

It was difficult to tell from his angle, but Demyx could have  _sworn he_  was smiling.


	8. Chapter 8

He sat plainly on the edge of the balcony, lower legs jutting out from the knees to form a forty-five degree angle, boots hooked in the marble posts to keep his balance. His sitar hung from a chain that crossed his shoulder blade, and he leaned over the instrument with a sort of neurotic concentration, gently moving a couple of frets to a new position and strumming, trying to match each note to his hum. There. That did it. A brand new chord. Who cared if he cheated, anyway? Who, besides him, had even the  _memory_ of appreciating  _any_ sort of music – oh, least of all the sharp, full, echoing tones of the sitar?

Who cared if he only pretended to tune?

_“You have potential. Nothing more.”_

The musician smiled, his lips curling almost mischievously as he recalled the smallest details from his dream. A sour note rang true – the first one to do so since his last round – and Demyx recalled passing Saïx once since the incident. It was in the once-unnamed hall that Axel had shown him, the hall which was now appropriately dubbed the Hall of Empty Melodies (Xemnas was more partial to the name than Demyx had been, by far).

Saïx had turned to regard him with a look that was hollow and haunting; his eyes had become eyes of hurricanes, the calms before storms. Demyx had smiled at him, suppressing none of his innately scripted cheer, and politely turned away. What little he saw of the Nobody after that day seemed to be confined to councils, and the mage couldn't say he was complaining.

“A-hem. Hmm, hmm.” Demyx wasn't sure if he was humming sharp at all, but it was the closest he was going to get without an external tuning device. “Hmm –  _hmm – HM._ ” He chuckled dryly. Why was he even trying? It would never work. He'd been at it for over an hour. With some persuasion, he would learn to accept his deficiency.

 _I should have never knocked you out of tune. I should have never used you to fight. I've committed you to a foreign and totally improper path, and I can never take it back. I'm sorry. I'm so_ sorry.

The notes that once vibrated so crisply in his throat were stripped of their electricity; they hummed now with a glow that barely surpassed that of the dull neons in the city. It was difficult to deny, and even more so to rationalise the change. What was there before simply  _wasn't_ , and that was that. How had he fooled himself before?

One by one, he tapped at the fine tuning beads, his mouth forming a small “o” of disappointment when he noticed that one of them had cracked. “Battle wound,” he murmured softly, hopping down from the railing to kneel at the gourd, fingering the bead at the bottom. The string had wedged itself into the fissure.

“Aw,  _man._ ”

 

 

 

 

A lean figure, clothed in black, leant against the column supporting the passageway leading out to the balcony. He held his arms languidly across his chest, his mouth tightly set, the line straight between his lips. His head tilted awkwardly to the right as Demyx leapt down to fiddle with something at the bottom of the instrument – the  _weapon._  The figure shook his head, his fiery mane of hair moving with the torque to his neck as he did so. It was a  _weapon_  now, a weapon  _alone_ , and the sooner Number Nine realised that, the sooner he stopped fussing and fidgeting over it as if it were destined to produce anything but an echo of the melodies it once so freely gave.

The defeated exclamation came at last from the Nocturne, and the figure watched intently as his blond head pressed quietly to the instrument's –  _weapon's –_  neck, the sigh heaving his whole body from his shoulders down. The figure pinched the bridge of his nose furtively, a smirk cracking the seeming immobility of his mouth. He stepped out, ready to address the musician at last. _That guy really needs another hobby._

“Axel.”

The figure whipped around, his brow instantly knit in a strange sort of panic. He recognised the way his name was pronounced, and the gruffness in the tone. “Saïx,” Axel muttered, ready to fall back into conjured darkness if negotiating failed – it usually did – and self-preservation became an issue. “Can I  _help_ you?”

Saïx ignored the inquiry, choosing instead to look past the red-haired Nobody, where the Nocturne had returned to his fussing. “Hm.” He stared ahead. “Shallow victory, Number Eight; have you nothing better to do than gawk at it?” His footfalls led him closer to Axel, who stepped back just as much.

“Oh, I can leave. I'd actually be more than happy to; I was really just going to ask Number Nine the same thing.”

“Have you?”

“Didn't – ah. Didn't get a chance.” Axel shrugged.

Saïx narrowed his eyes marginally. “Then leave. I'll do it for you.”

Axel glanced from the Nocturne to the Berserker, a debate clearly having it out in his mind. It wasn't a long debate at all, nor was it a very difficult choice to make. He nodded to Saïx, letting the darkness curl about him quickly, removing him from that location and placing him in what he considered a safer one. He and Number Nine were no longer fighting the same battles. It was none of his concern.

_Wait –_

_No. No. Not my fight._

Saïx lifted his chin to study the absence for a moment, then turned toward Demyx, who continued to remain oblivious, still adamantly working the beads with his fingers. “Number Nine,” he said. His fingers flew to his throat. If he hadn't simply hallucinated that second tone, slightly accented, he would swear that two voices had just elicited from one mouth. His mouth.

Both theories, however, were put to rest moments later. A blur of blond hair and the glint of an earring brushed past Saïx, nudging him a little to the side. The Berserker's fists clenched.

“Apologies,” said the man with the earring, and he turned back to the kneeling musician.

 

Saïx scowled, then calmed just as quickly. He nodded impassively; enough of his time had been wasted. With a toss of his hair, he stepped through a portal of his own design.

Demyx looked up at the newcomer, then stood, leaning his sitar against the railing. “Number Ten! Er, I mean – Luxord, right?” He'd moved from dejected to cheerful, wielding his Other's memories like puddle-charms as he held out a hand in greeting. “To what do I owe this visit?”

Luxord paused in delivering his own greeting, his lips slightly parted as his voice and expression dangled in a suspended state. His face was creased with anything but cheer; there was some presence of what might have been called confusion, along with a certain smugness that seemed too permanent to be anything but residual from his Other, but nothing else. “The Superior sent me to find you. He told me you would teach me to fight.”

The musician's eyebrows almost met his hairline; they were raised so prominently with his surprise. “Wait. Hang on. The  _Superior –_  Xemnas – told you that  _I_ would teach you how to fight?” He blinked.

“Are you Number Nine?”

“Yes,” Demyx said.

“Then yes, that's what I said,” Luxord replied.

Demyx pressed a hand to the side of his head. “I don't get it.”

Luxord sniffed. “I don't know, the concept seems pretty straightforward to me.” He folded his arms. “So, are you going to do so, or shall I return to the Superior with your declination?”

Demyx paused uncertainly in his words and movement, studying the face of his charge. Already, he noticed acceptance. He would take his new lot in life – not-life – with ease, Demyx suspected. Something he was struggling to do, but would do in a matter of time. Once he learned to be selfish enough to do anything in his power to  _take back what was rightfully his –_

The mage blinked up at Number Ten. He wanted to see sincerity. He wanted to see something there, something he'd already admitted that he would never find in the Organization.  _Something he didn't want to lose; he'd lost enough._

“What?” Luxord snapped uneasily.

Demyx gave him a wan smile and shook his head. “Nothing.” He gripped the neck of his sitar, then let it de-materialise to a faint glow in his palm. “Want to go get started, then?”

Luxord's eyes widened. “Are you going to teach me to do that? If so, then yes.”

Demyx shook his head. “You've your own weapon and magics, haven't you?”

The other Nobody snorted. “Do I, now?” He lifted his empty hands to inspect them closely. “Ah, yes. There they are. Right alongside the unicorn.”

“Then you haven't been told what your weapon or magics are?” Demyx asked patiently. He tugged at Luxord's sleeve, urging the Nobody to walk with him toward the Second Chamber of Arms.

“No,” said Number Ten simply, following behind. “Are you going to tell me?”

Demyx frowned as he looked ahead, past the cold and consistently dark reaches of the hallway, down to the other side where another balcony stood, stately and gleaming beneath the only source of light on that world – a heart-shaped moon hanging in the sky. “I don't think so,” he murmured finally, his eyes focusing on the heart's tip. He looked down and away. “I think it's better if you find out for yourself.”

Demyx knew Luxord remained behind him by the  _clunk, clunk_ sound of his boots. Even if Number Ten did wander off in lieu of entertaining his battle-mind, where would he go? How long would it be before inevitability would bring them against each other once more, pitted in trials and triumph like net-men in Nero's Colosseum?

They reached the Second Chamber, and Demyx pressed his hand to the threshold. “Why?” Luxord persisted. “Why won't you just tell me?”

The Nocturne glanced over his shoulder at Number Ten, his expression nigh unreadable. He couldn't properly sate the Nobody's curiosity – expressed all the way en route to the Chamber both in languid pries and frustrated sputterings – if he tried. “Because I don't know,” he said, breaching the doorway. “And even if I did, that's not the way things work around here.” Luxord's eyelids flickered open a mite wider, and Demyx sighed. The guard slid back into place behind them. “Trust me. I'm doing you a favour.”

It was Demyx's first empty victory, and it wouldn't be his last.


End file.
